


Red Hot & Wired

by anotherwinchesterfangirl



Series: Song Prompt Fics [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: A little, Awkwardness, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, F/M, Hair-pulling, Masturbation, Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 12:58:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9182806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherwinchesterfangirl/pseuds/anotherwinchesterfangirl
Summary: Sam and the reader have some serious sexual tension to work out.For the song prompt "This House Is on Fire" by AC/DC.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @lipstickandwhiskey's AC/DC Writing Challenge over on Tumblr.

You finish dumping an armful of dirty clothes into one of the laundromat’s washing machines and drop the door shut with a bang. You can feel Sam’s eyes on you, burning hot through your clothes and into your skin, and you purposely exaggerate your bend down to reach for the bottle of laundry detergent, giving just a little bit of a show. The tension between you has reached a sudden, shimmering high this past week. There’s always been something unidentifiable between the two of you—flirting, chemistry, whatever. You’ve always _noticed_ Sam—the way his shoulders shift under his flannel, the way his hands fit around the grip of his pistol or fly across the keyboard of his laptop, the sheer freaking size of him—but you never thought he noticed you back. Until now.

Five days ago, Sam walked into the motel bathroom while you were in the shower. Normally, not that big of a deal—you’ve been working and traveling and sharing living quarters with the Winchesters for at least a year now; you’re practically close as siblings. You’ve all seen each other in various stages of undress or wrapped in bath towels. Sam or Dean have slipped into the bathroom while you’re showering numerous times. Except _this_ time you were right in the middle of working yourself over, fingers moving quick over your clit, just tipping into bliss and unable to stifle your low moan _just_ as the door swung open. You clapped a hand over your mouth as soon as you heard the squeak of the door hinge, your whole body flushing hot under the lukewarm water, trying desperately to stop the panting shudder of your orgasm, but it was too late.

“Uh. Um. S-sorry. I just…my watch,” Sam stuttered out, fumbling on the other side of the curtain. His watch clattered against the counter. “Sorry, fuck, uh—sorry,” still talking as the soft click of the door muffles his voice again.   

 _Oh my god_. Mortified didn’t even begin to scratch the surface. It wasn’t that you were ashamed that you occasionally got off in the shower—everybody has needs and you know the guys do it all the time—but there’s a big difference between them assuming you do it and actually walking in on you in the middle of an orgasm. And if Sam said anything to Dean about it, you knew you’d never hear the end of it.

But when you finally came out of the bathroom, Dean seemed unaware. Sam was sitting on the bed, elbows on his knees, watching the news on the tiny tube TV. He didn’t say anything, just flashed a shy, knowing smile, dimples deep in his cheeks, and gave you a fleeting, blink-quick glance that made you heat up all over again.

Now every tiny thing is magnified. Every accidental touch feels charged, every glance heated, how much you want him a constant thing simmering under the surface. You can hardly sleep anymore, sharing the same room—tossing and turning, a constant ache between your legs from knowing he’s just a few yards away, sleepy soft and warm as a furnace probably. But you can’t do anything about it with Dean sleeping in the next bed, and even now that you’ve finished the hunt, the bunker is still a two-days drive away. It seems like you’ll never get there. And before you can even _start_ driving there’s stuff to be done here: Dean’s cleaning up the mess of vampire bodies, and you and Sam are on laundry duty. You’re the only ones in this twenty-four-hour laundromat at 4:00am, and the glare of the bright lights throws everything into sharp relief, heightening every glance and breath between you.

You finish a couple loads, practically shaking with the intensity of Sam’s eyes on you while you fold your panties into neat squares and line them up on top of a dryer (this is why you and Sam do the laundry and not Dean). You focus on your breathing, trying to stay steady despite being ridiculously aroused, when large hands land heavy on your hips and pull you backward. He leans over you, his breath hot on your ear, and your heart pounds.

“I’ve been thinking about making you come for the past four days,” he says, so low you feel it more than hear it, “and I don’t know if I can wait till the bunker.” He doesn’t give you a chance to respond or even suck in a breath before his fingers are slipping under your shirt, his palm hot against your belly. He slides a finger behind the button of your jeans and lets it sit  there. “What do you think?”

“I think—” You swallow, breathe. “I think here is as good a place as any.” You lean back against him, curving your back just a little so your ass presses into his groin and you feel the pulse of his dick through the layers of denim.

He wastes no time working your jeans open and sliding his fingers down into your panties, where there’s already a spot of wetness waiting for him. You gasp slightly as he slides his other hand up to your breast, pushing the underwire up over the swell of it and brushing his thumb over your nipple.

“Sam,” you gasp. “We’re-we’re right…” Even though you’re the only two people in here, there’s still a bank of of windows along one wall and bright lights illuminating _everything_. Your brain tell you you can’t do this, not here, but your gut says _let them see_. The idea sends a fresh surge of wetness over Sam’s fingers.

“Nobody’s gonna come in here,” he breathes in your ear, grinding against your ass. Then he laughs. “Except for you.”

You laugh a little too, bending forward over the dryer as Sam kicks your feet further apart, scissors his fingers inside you.

“Yes, please,” you say, breathy. The vibration of the running machine rumbles through you and the press of cold metal against your nipples makes your breath catch in your throat, and suddenly you’re right on the verge of coming. You twist your head to look back over your shoulder and all you can see is Sam’s broad, flannel covered chest, his large frame shielding you completely from any suspicious onlookers. You moan as he pushes you closer, as your thighs start to shake.

“ _There’s_ that moan,” he rasps in your ear, sounding totally wrecked. He pushes the fingers of his other hand through the hair at the back of your head and grips, sending sparks down your spine. “I’ve been waiting to hear that sound again.” You’re white knuckling the edges of the dryer, so hard your hands ache. He bends down and catches your earlobe in his teeth, his fingers slip-sliding over your swollen clit, and you spread your legs a tiny bit more and come, empty cunt fluttering and breath trembling.

“God, you’re so hot when you come,” he says, and your face flushes. You turn in his arms, still catching your breath from what might have been the best fingering you’ve ever had, and push up onto your toes so you can kiss him. He smiles against your lips and your chest feels like it might burst open.

“I want to fuck you,” he mumbles, dropping his forehead to yours.

“ _Here?_ ” Your voice is breathy and high. You know you should be concerned with getting caught, public indecency, or whatever, but you’re too turned on to care. You have a feeling Sam is too.

“Yes,” he growls, gripping your ass with both hands and hoisting you up onto the dryer.

“Sam, what if—” your brain makes one last feeble effort at reason.

“I don’t _care_.” He covers your mouth with his, tongue seeking desperate and hot, and everything else disappears. You slide your hands up into his hair, leaning back and pulling him with you, pressing his mouth so hard to yours it’s practically bruising. You feel like you’ll combust if you can’t get him close enough. You drag your hands down his chest to his waistband, push your hands down inside his shorts, and grip his length. He groans through clenched teeth as you touch him, his cock hard and hot and leaking.

He tugs at your jeans, and you lift your ass so he can get them down a little. You kick off one shoe, and he pulls your jeans off that leg, leaving them hanging from the other. Then he shoves his own down around his thighs. He pulls a condom from his pocket and tears it open.

“You came prepared,” you tease, leaning back against the control panel of the machine and letting your legs dangle. Your chest is still heaving a little, your shirt half pulled up and your stomach and the bottom curve of your breasts exposed. He rolls on the condom, his cock bobbing up in front of his belly button.

“Hopeful,” he says, and grins, gripping your hips again and pulling you to the edge of the machine. He pushes into you thick and slow, wraps an arm around your back and pulls you up close against him. The full hot stretch of him inside you takes your breath away and time slows for a second, suspends between you like a slow pour of molasses. Red hot heat spreads from your cunt all the way to your fingertips, and you breathe against him, breathe in the beads of sweat shimmering at the hollow of his throat.

And then he draws back, almost completely out, and thrusts back in, so hard your ass raises up off the machine. He tips you back, and you brace your hands behind you and wrap your legs around his waist. He’s holding your ass in the air as he pumps into you, pulling you into him and pistoning his hips hard and fast. You drop your head back, jostling at the top of each thrust, and all you can do is hold on even though your arms are sort of going numb.

A scream rips from your throat as you come a second time, this one deep and reverberating inside you, everything fuzzing out a little. One, two more thrusts and Sam grunts and stills, curling over and pressing his forehead against your sternum, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he whispers, muffled by the folds of your shirt, and pulls out gingerly.

“Yeah,” you agree, breathless.

Sam discards the condom and you slip into the bathroom to get cleaned up. When you come out a few minutes later, still slightly disheveled but mostly presentable, Sam’s calmly talking with an older man who’s loading his clothes into a washer. You glance at your watch—it’s 4:45am—and you flush hot all over at how close you were to getting caught. Sam sends you a knowing smirk and a wink, and fresh arousal blooms hot between your legs. You can’t wait to get him alone again.


End file.
